The Garden of Small Beginnings, page 20
“No, but I wanted to tell you that I love you.”
Long pause. I mean, really, a long pause.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here. I’m just worried you’re dying of cancer.”
“Because I said I loved you?”
“Yes. You hardly ever say it anymore, you know. You said it when your dad died, and you said it last Christmas.”
“You can remember specifically when I said it last? That’s sad.”
“Yes.” Her tone was as dry as ever. “You were never the most affectionate of children. Your sister is positively cuddly in comparison.”
I started to get annoyed, and took a breath. “Well, I realized just now that we all lost Dan when he died, which I realize is stunningly obvious, but still. And that you lost Dad, too, and I never really talk to you about that, about the fact that both of us are widows.”
She caught her breath. “Oh, my God, you are dying of cancer. You did always have weird breasts.”
I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to wrap the phone cord around my own neck and tighten it until I lost consciousness. She was still talking.
“Please tell me it’s you and not one of the children.”
For some reason that struck me as funny, and I started to laugh.
“Mom! Pull it together. No one is dying of cancer, for crying out loud. I am trying to tell you that I love you, that I empathize with your loss, that I want to share my feelings with you, and, as always, you are making it totally freaking impossible.” I was still smiling, though. “We’ve always done this, made fun of feelings and not talked about shit, and we’re too old. We need to get it together.”
Another thoughtful pause. “And you promise you’re not going to give me terrible news. It’s not me that’s dying, is it?”
Tempting. I sighed in exasperation. “Mom, quit it. You’re as bad as I am.”
“Well, maybe that’s where you learnt it from.”
“Doubtless.”
“I miss your dad, you know. He was always so good at talking to you all. He could tell you stuff I wanted to, but couldn’t. Since he died, I feel like every time I open my mouth, I put my foot in it. Thank God he was still here when Dan died, not that I didn’t manage to mess that up, too. I’m sorry.”
“I know you are, Mom. We made up about the funeral thing, remember? I miss Dad, too. Why don’t you come over more?”
“Why don’t you come over more? I’m all alone in this big house, rattling around like a seed in a pod. I’d love to have the children here.”
“Oh, come off it. Every time we come over, the kids break something and you say something inappropriate. I don’t want them to get anxious around you.”
“Like you and your sister, you mean?”
I paused. We were actually doing better than I had thought we would, talking, and I didn’t want to put her back up. But I plunged on, regardless.
“Sure. Like me and Rachel. We love you so much, but you say hurtful things sometimes.”
“You know I don’t mean to.”
“Actually, I don’t know you don’t mean it. I know you can’t help it, but that’s different. Look, let’s just try a bit harder? I don’t know that we can reverse a lifetime of weirdness, but I don’t want to go on like I have been. I can think about Dan without bursting into flames. You can tell me you love me, if you want to. I can not react to everything you say as if I were still fifteen. Rachel can fall in love.”
She laughed. “Let’s not go crazy.”
I agreed. There’d be time for that later on. I wasn’t really sure why my feelings about all this had suddenly changed, but I felt better than I had in a long time when I hung up the phone.
Then the kids got home from school, with Leah trailing behind them. They burst through the door and flung themselves at me, chattering away as always. I realized that I must have been chatty like that with my mother, too, and I wondered how many years it had taken for that flood to slow to a trickle. One small stone at a time, I expect, and before you know it you have a dam. The kids dropped their bags and papers on the floor and took off for the garden, presumably to play with the fairy house. I picked up a picture they’d dropped and looked at it. Clare had drawn the garden, and I was impressed to see we’d acquired an apple tree, a lake with ducks, and a tiger in a dressing gown. Nice. Still no bench for me, though. I thought of something, and went to find the sketchbook I had given to Annabel. I flipped through until I got to my picture of the garden. Aha! A bench! I knew I’d put one in. And there was Dan, sitting on my bench, just hanging out.
I sighed and went to make dinner.
• • •
The kids found the photos hysterical. Oh, how they laughed—Mom was so funny-looking! And Daddy was so funny-looking! And Aunty Rachel was so pretty! And Grandma was wearing a bikini! It was all such a revelation, and I felt shitty I’d let nearly four years slide by. I realized I had been cool and self-absorbed in the same way my mother had been. And I get it, that’s how she was raised, and her parents before her, yada yada, but enough already. Seeing my sister cry shouldn’t have been an epiphany, but it was. News flash! Other people have feelings, too! I could have beat myself up about it, but I decided that was over, too. At least I didn’t tell the kids they had weird breasts.
As we stuck pictures in the album, I went and got the camera. I snapped and snapped, and then picked up the sketchbook and drew. This was a new beginning, and I wasn’t going to miss any of it.
• • •
I had Leah for the evening, so I decided to go nuts and head out, alone, to Target. I needed to get something, probably, and what better place to get something than Target. I remember once reading a study about toddlers, or three-year-olds, or some other unpredictable group like that, in which they diagrammed the movements of the children between other children and tables with activities on them and things like that. Basically it looked like a spiderweb, as they wandered about the room. If you did the same for my life, it would be a square: the house, the school, the office, and Target. And with the office going away, it was going to be a triangle any minute now. Perhaps I could start haunting the gas station or something, just to keep myself quadrilateral.
Anyway, even the smell of Target made me feel happy, and when I was first out of the hospital, I spent a lot of time there, just wandering around waiting for school to let out. I couldn’t work for a while, just couldn’t stay focused long enough to remember what I was drawing, so I had very little to do between drop-off and pickup. Target was close, there was plentiful parking at 9:05 in the morning, and no one thought twice about a spacey woman leaning on her cart handle, humming the Sesame Street theme song and making her fourth pass through car care.
Often I bought nothing, but sometimes I would throw things in my cart with manic enthusiasm, filling my kitchen cupboards with doughnut makers and ice shavers and little fake Christmas trees that smelled like real Christmas trees. I bought clothes for the kids, clothes for Rachel, and clothes for Frank. I bought myself socks because my feet stayed the same size, even as the weight continued to fall off me. After Dan died, I lost forty pounds and my periods stopped. Eventually, my grief therapist threatened to put me back in the hospital unless I started taking care of myself. I went on a strict four-Snickers-a-day diet and regained some weight. Not just the Snickers, just to clarify, them in addition to regular food. I can’t eat them anymore. They remind me too much of that first year. Snickers, my kitchen floor, the smell of rain, Converse high-tops, broken glass, rubbing alcohol on cotton wool, that Sheryl Crow song about having fun, my husband’s shaving cream, the taste of blood in my mouth. None of them are as enjoyable as they used to be.
My phone rang as I cruised through the pet section, debating getting Frank a stuffed duck to chew on. He much preferred dirty laundry, but maybe he’d appreciate the thought. It was Rachel.
“He officially likes me.”
“No hello?”
“I’m being efficient. Hello.”
I moved from pet supplies to DVDs and books. I knew none of the writers and very few of the new releases. I needed to get out more.
“How do you know he likes you?”
“He told me. No hello back?”
“Hello. When was this?”
“On the phone, just now. Where are you?”
“Target. So, did you tell him you liked him, too?”
“I did. I actually did. Can you get me a packet of Sharpies?”
I wheeled the cart in the direction of stationery, cards, and craft accessories. I could see several other people aimlessly propelling carts while talking on their phones. Somehow we managed not to cause a ten-cart pileup in the middle of small appliances, although there was an awesome mime-opera of raised eyebrows, half smiles, mouthed sorrys, and near misses.
“Well, that’s good, then. You’ve known each other a day and a half, and you both like each other. Super.”
“Are you laughing at me?”
“Not at all. I assume when I get out of the store there will be airplanes filling the skies with ‘Rachel Likes Richard’ in big puffy clouds. I imagine you’ve already changed your status on Facebook.”
“I don’t use Facebook.”
“I know. I was laughing at you. So what happens now?”
“No idea.”
“I have your Sharpies. Black, presumably?”
“Yes.”
I also grabbed her a complete set of colors, what the hell. I could never resist a brand-new set of markers. My kids literally had buckets of them. She hung up, and I headed to underwear. I paused, considering a purchase. Was it time for new panties? Just buying them didn’t mean I had to show them to anyone, right? I spent twenty minutes picking out pretty, lacy things in pale colors and dark colors, in black and fawn . . . and then handed them to the cashier at checkout. “I’ve changed my mind about these,” I told her, and honestly she could not have cared less. Then I watched her ring up the Sharpies, the printer paper, the T-shirt with a cat, the T-shirt with a whale, the three pairs of slipper socks, the duck for the dog, and the jumbo container of peanut butter and tried to work up the nerve to change my mind back again. Honestly, it was ridiculous. I used to wonder what other people thought of me, then I wondered what other people thought of my children, and now I just hope I can attract someone’s attention if I catch fire.
Finally she was done, and then, miraculously, she smiled at me and said, “Are you sure about the underwear?”
I said, “Actually, no. I want it after all. Thanks for asking.”
She grinned and pulled it from under the counter. “Good for you,” she said, as she scanned the tags. “It’s nice to treat yourself once in a while.”
She was right, of course. And now the underwear is sitting at the back of my drawer and may never see the light of day, but hey, baby steps, right?
How to Grow Strawberries
Strawberries can be planted as soon as the ground can be worked easily.
• They are sprawling plants, sending out runners to cover the ground.
• Plant them deeply and widely enough to accommodate the entire root system without bending it. However, the crown should still be right at the surface. Sometimes gardening is a precision science.
• Give them lots of room and plenty of sunlight. Raised beds are particularly good for strawberries.
• Don’t plant them anywhere that recently had tomatoes, peppers, or eggplants growing in it. It freaks them out, don’t ask me why.
Chapter 16
Speaking of new beginnings, the next day I had another job interview. This time I quizzed Melanie in detail.
“It’s a children’s book publishing house, so you have the right kind of experience. They want someone who can do a variety of styles, which you can, and it’s a contract job.”
“Which means?”
“It means they have a stable of artists and illustrators that they use, and they want to expand it. I don’t know if they want you to come in and do work in-house, or if it’s just freelance.”
I frowned. I wanted health insurance. Mind you, I also wanted a holiday home in Aruba, but I doubted that was on offer. I climbed into my suit again (Thompson Twins vintage T-shirt this time) and was twenty minutes early.
The vibe at Rubber Ball Press was a little bit different from the erotica place. To start with, there were two people in reception arguing fiercely.
“You’re totally wrong. He’s an octopus.”
“Squid. It’s in his goddamned name!”
“But count his legs!”
“He’s a cartoon, not a textbook. It doesn’t matter how many legs he has.”
They were talking about SpongeBob SquarePants, of course. The debate about whether Squidward Tentacles is an octopus or a squid is a fascinating one, and ultimately unanswerable. I weighed in.
“I hate to interrupt, but I think he’s been described as both on the series.”
They turned to me, and rather than being weirded out that a total stranger had interrupted their argument, seemed open to input.
“But he has only six tentacles.”
I shrugged. “While it’s embarrassing to admit this, I heard the guy who made the series on NPR, and he said it was just easier to draw six. Ten made him look like he was going to trip any second. Just too many.”
They nodded. I was willing to bet they were illustrators, too, because we’re weird.
The receptionist was smiling at me. I told her who I was, and she seemed to be OK with it and suggested I take a seat. I looked around. No nudes, but lots of bright colors and toys. It kind of looked like my house, but neater, obviously.
After a little bit, a woman about my age appeared, looking harassed, and said my name in the form of a question.
Her office was not very big, and the resemblance to my house was much closer. There were photos and toys and pieces of paper everywhere. Her computer was covered in Post-its, and I counted three coffee cups on her desk. She and I were obviously sisters under the skin. Her name was Betty. As in Boop, she said. I told her I was Lilian. As in . . . I had nothing.
“Mel explained you’re leaving Poplar because they’re closing the department?”
I nodded. “They’ve decided to outsource the illustration overseas.”
She made a face. “Well, we tried that, too, and the good part of it was we discovered some freelancers over there who we still use, but it ended up that we always needed some folks in-house to do faster-turnaround stuff, or to do fixes on the overseas stuff, so in the end, we backed off it. Poplar may do the same.”
I turned up my palms. “I’d be happy to freelance for them if they need it, but I have kids, so I need a real job.”
“We aren’t looking for full time. Didn’t Mel tell you that?”
My heart sank. “She wasn’t sure.”
She frowned a little. “I don’t want to waste your time. We only have one or two people full time in-house, and the rest of the work gets done by a dozen or so illustrators who work from wherever they want. However, we are able to offer a retainer, which is a guaranteed amount of work.” She pointed up at her shelves, which were loaded with books. “We’ve been lucky. Our Squirty Squirrel character took off, and we produce a couple of titles for him each month. We also do the books for several kids’ cable networks. You know, those irritating books based on the episodes?”
I nodded. She was right. They were irritating, but still, work was work. She had pulled down a couple and handed them to me.
“They annoy the crap out of me, personally, when I read them to my kids, but the kids eat them up.”
“How many kids do you have?” I looked for photos but couldn’t see any under all the clutter on her desk.
She smiled. “Just two, but they keep me busy. Eight and six. Girls.”
I smiled back. “Me, too. Seven and five, also girls.”
“Well, then, you know exactly what we do, because you’re daughters are the target for most of it.” She reached for my portfolio and started flipping through it. Silence descended.
“You’re very good, but I guess you know that.”
I made a face. “Not really. It’s been a while since I did my own style, so I don’t really know what it is anymore.”
She flipped the portfolio around. She had it open to a page of little pen-and-ink drawings of my kids. I had put it in there just to fill the portfolio out, actually. I did these little doodles all the time, but don’t really consider them work.
“These are great. Unusually quirky and fun, but they still communicate a lot, do you know what I mean? I mean, I see what these kids look like, but I also get a sense of their natures. That’s the real skill. But anyway, I need artists who can be flexible and do a variety of styles. Do you write at all?”
I shook my head. “Nope, I’m not a writer.”
She closed the portfolio and handed it back. “Well, we have a stable of writers, too, so maybe if I come across something that I think would be good for you, we can put it together. We’ve had a lot of good fortune with our own titles, and your quirky little pen-and-inks aren’t like anything else we do right now. I’ll give it some thought.”
Was the interview over? I was suddenly confused. Luckily, Betty was still on top of it. Her harassed air apparently hid an organizational maven. No wonder she ran the joint.
“So, I’d love to add you to our roster. How it works is that a job will come in, you’ll stop by the office to get briefed, and often meet with the writer or editor on the book or series, and then you can work here if you want, or at home if that’s what you prefer. We do flat fee, not hourly.”
I was feeling slow. “I’m sorry . . . did I get the job?”
